The Consequences of Sentiment
by OccasionallyCreative
Summary: Years after faking her death in order to save her friends, Molly Hooper is again put to the test when she comes face-to-face with a new villain. Yet, in attempting to take him down once and for all, Molly comes to realise that there are far bigger things at risk than merely her reputation. (Sequel to The Most Human)


_**Author's Note:**_ _But, Eleanor... didn't you say there would never be a sequel to The Most Human? *holds up hands* I know, I know. Never trust a writer. I've been sitting on this idea for a long while now, writing passages for it here and there. I did intend for this to be a lot shorter, but the characters kind of ran rampant, and I ended up with this monster of a thing._

_As is the way with me, this is edited but unbeta'd. (I should think about getting one of those. Stat.)_ _And don't forget to leave a review or favourite this story if you liked it!_

* * *

"Hey! Look out!"

Hands gripped at his arms, shopping bags smacking at his sides as he felt himself tugged back as a car, red and sleek, barrelled down the street, straight across where he once he stood. His shock led him to laugh, and he looked to his rescuer. His first thought was just how dazzling her smile was.

"Thanks," he said, his gaze flicking over her form. Small, blonde, blue eyes; she was pretty. Very pretty, actually.

"You're welcome – it's not often that I save someone's life." She spoke lightly, playing it off as little more than a joke, but there was an unknown meaning behind her words, one that pained her. He didn't know why, but he immediately wanted to provide her with comfort of some sort, whether it was a handshake or just a kind word or two. She stuck out a hand.

"I'm Mary Morstan."

"Oh." He gave a smile and took her hand, shaking it. "John. John Watson."

* * *

She was beautiful. He had noted that from their very first meeting, but with her hair pinned back into carefully arranged curls and her eyes bright, he knew—for seemingly the thousandth time—it to be irreversibly true. The box felt like a weight in his pocket, anchoring him from spinning off and exploding in several thousand directions. Slipping his fingers into his pocket, he touched against the velvet sheen of the box. The waitress, hair scooped into a messy bun and her glasses pushed up to her nose, smiled at him.

"Can I help you with anything sir?"

He made to answer, but his attention was soon taken up by the sight of her, Mary, heading down the stairs. The waitress gave a heavy sigh and stepped away, muttering to herself, but he barely heard her. Seeing him, Mary gave a smile and sat opposite him.

"Sorry that took so long. Queue for the loo was enormous – are you okay?"

Retrieving his hand from his pocket, he covered it over hers and gave a nod. "Yeah, I'm _fine._ Better than fine, actually."

_Nervous as hell, but fine._ He shifted slightly in his seat.

"Mary, I know it hasn't been long – and I know we haven't known each other for very long but, uh – well, meeting you – meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened."

"I agree."

He blinked. "What?"

"I agree I'm the best thing that could have happened to you."

_Oh. _He let out a relieved laugh as she scrunched up her nose.

"Sorry – bad joke."

"No, it's fine!" He cleared his throat. God, was there a worse way to muck something up? It was just a proposal. Just a proposal! Ha. "It's absolutely fine. But – uh – Mary… if you could—"

His words died away as he noticed that Mary was no longer looking at him. Her face had paled, and her eyes were no longer bright but dark, dark with unbridled shock. John lifted his head. The waitress, now sans glasses and with her hair down stared back at Mary, was worrying at her bottom lip.

"Two years…" The words came out in a whisper.

John's brow furrowed as he looked between the two women. "Mary, is everything okay?"

The waitress turned her gaze towards him. John's mouth dropped open. That—she—wasn't… _possible._ The waitress gave a smile.

"Hello Mr Watson. My name is Molly Hooper. Sorry for uh, interrupting your proposal."

Mary choked on nothing, whipping her head around to look at John. "_Proposal?!_"

* * *

It had taken six months for them all to get to this point. Six months of wedding planning and constant apologies, and now Molly stood, happy that she was finally truly forgiven, with her violin and bow in her hands as she prepared to address the wedding party, her gaze lingering on the happy couple, John and Mary Watson.

"So, err, ladies and gentlemen, just one tiny last thing before the evening can properly begin. A sincere apology for earlier – a kind of crisis arose and was, um – what's that phrase Donovan uses – summarily dealt with. Yes. Summarily dealt with." _There was a murderer at the wedding, but yes, it had been dealt with._ She took a breath. "More importantly however, we saw two people; two very important people make very important vows to one another. I've – well – I've never made a vow in my life and I probably never will, if I have my way. But here it is anyway – my first and last vow. Mary, John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on, I'm always going to be there for the three – no, sorry, _two_ – of you. Forget the three thing. Miscounted. Anyway! Time for dancing!"

As the disco lights began to flash and the music began to play, she hurried over. John directed a look at Mary. Three? How could she, great consulting detective that she was, have miscalculated? Unless… Mary's eyes quickly grew wide with the realisation. Her hand fluttered over her abdomen.

"Ah." Popping up beside them, Molly grimaced apologetically. "Sorry. I – I didn't know if you wanted me to keep quiet about it or—"

"We didn't actually – really – _know_," Mary said quietly. Molly's hands flew to her face as she gasped.

"Oh God! I'm _so_ sorry! I mean, I thought – you know – increased appetite, change of taste perception and you were sick this morning – all the signs were there."

Mary raised an eyebrow and held up her hand. "Molly, stop. Shut. Up."

"Sorry."

"Stop."

"Stopping."

Mary slowly looked to her husband, who appeared to have gone catatonic. One small push and he would've toppled right over. She raised a smile and leaned forward, kissing his cheek. That seemed to break his trance, for he blinked.

"I'm going to be a dad."

"And you'll be brilliant at it," Mary said reassuringly, cupping at his cheek. "But how _you_ noticed before me, Molly, I'll never know. I'm a doctor for God's sake! I should know what's wrong with my own body!"

Molly waved a hand. "It's your wedding day, allow yourself a day off. Anyway, you shouldn't panic. I know you'll be great at it, the two of you. You've managed to look after me after all – that's plenty of practice right there."

Mary giggled as John grinned, wrapping his arms around her.

"Yeah," he said with a nod, kissing at Mary's temple. "I'm sure we'll be great."

* * *

Molly groaned and sank further into her chair, pulling her hood over her face as Mary stood over her, glaring. Gripping at Molly's hood, she ripped it back.

"One month, Molly! Is that all the time it takes? For you – for you to become," Mary sighed and straightened up, touching at her temples. "To become this!"

Molly's gaze hardened.

"Leave me alone," she sneered.

"No! I found you in a bloody drug den, Molly! If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called, hell, you could have just _talked_ to me! Even a bloody text!"

"Try and find a new swear word – 'bloody' is getting boring."

Sat on the sofa, John watched this exchange with sombre silence. Mary had told him of Molly's old drug habit in passing, but neither of them had ever had the supposed honour of seeing her like this: high, cruel, isolated and downright malicious, with greasy hair and sallow skin. And it had only taken her a month. One _month._ The door to 221b slammed open. Where John and Mary paused and turned their heads, Molly growled.

"You called her – you fucking called _her._"

"Of course she fucking did!"

John raised his eyebrows. He didn't think the calm and controlled Anthea Hooper even _had_ the capacity to swear. Clearly only her sister could make her lose her façade like this. When Molly gave no reply, Anthea stalked forward, pushed Mary to one side and the slap she cracked against Molly's cheek echoed.

"How dare you!" she hissed, never once breaking her gaze with her sister. "How dare you throw away the gifts you were born with, and how dare you betray the love of your friends, of me? Say you're sorry!"

"Oh do sod off, sister mine," Molly groaned, pulling herself out of her chair. Rubbing at her eyes, she headed down the hallway. "This is all for a case anyway."

"And what possible case could that be?" Anthea called after her, arms crossed over her chest as she tapped her foot impatiently. Turning to head into the bathroom, Molly gave a smirk.

"Magnussen. Charles Augustus Magnussen."

Satisfied to see her sister's features drop into a warning glare, she stepped into the bathroom and pointedly slammed the door behind her. The muffled sound of running water soon followed. Mary sighed and ran her hands over her face.

"For God's sake…"

Seemingly to add to the confusion and conflict of the day, another door opened. All three watched, increasingly wearing different expressions of surprise as a curly-haired, somewhat handsome man blearily stumbled out of the bedroom. Clad in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, he saw the three staring but instead of expressing any sort of apology for his attire or his sudden arrival, he held a hand in greeting as Toby gave a small meow and trailed out of the bedroom behind him.

"Hi. Everything blown over now? Where's Molls – bathroom, I suppose?"

_Molls?_ Mary gave a slow nod, her eyes following as Tom turned and headed inside. Tom, from the wedding. Heading inside a bathroom. That Molly Hooper was now having a bath in. A muffled giggle sounded, followed by the slight splashing of water.

"Ooh, hello!" Molly's voice, far too cheery, came from behind the shut door. "I was just having a bath – care to join me?"

Deciding to tune out the rest of that particular conversation, Mary looked to Anthea, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Who's Magnussen?"

"Do you really wish to go down that road, Mrs Watson?"

"Considering the man has caused my best friend to dabble in drugs again, I'll say yes."

Anthea considered her for a moment. "Magnussen is many things. But above all things, he is most definitely _not my sister's business._"

Perhaps it was the way Anthea raised her voice on the last few words of her last sentence or perhaps it was the way she tilted her head and turned her glare on the bathroom door, but Mary somehow sensed that the answer Anthea had given was more designed for the consulting detective Molly Hooper, and not her. That didn't mean she couldn't find out what sort of gravitas he had with the two Hooper siblings that had led to one becoming a promiscuous drug addict and the other to lose their previously unflappable control and show a shred of emotion for once.

"Why exactly isn't he Molly's business?"

"He owns newspapers," Anthea said vaguely. "And he is under my protection."

"More like you're under his thumb," Molly said, opening the bathroom door, clad in nothing more than a towel. Underneath the withering glare of her sister, she began to tunefully hum and headed into her bedroom, Toby trailing after her. A few minutes later, with only Tom's muffled but cheerful singing as he showered providing any sort of backing track, Molly returned, dressed and with Toby scooped up into her arms. Her path towards her chair was however blocked by her sister, who stepped in front of her. The two eyeballed one another.

Anthea was the one to speak first. "Molly, if you go against Magnussen, you'll find yourself going against me."

"And what will you do? Slap me again?" At this suggestion, Toby gave a little hiss and Molly smirked before sidestepping her sister and sitting in her armchair. Surprisingly, her gaze fell on John. "Hi John – you okay?"

"Uh – I'm alright, I guess. Just – uh – you've got a boyfriend?"

Mary aimed a look at him.

"That's your priority?" she hissed. John gave a shrug.

"You and Anthea seem to have the drug thing pretty much covered."

Molly gave a small smile. "They do, don't they? Anyway, to answer your question John, I do have a boyfriend. And a very nice one too. Anthea, you can leave now, if you like."

Flicking her hair over her shoulder, Anthea's glare deepened. "You've resuscitated your drug habit and you're getting involved with Magnussen. I have very little reason to leave."

"Anthea, just leave, okay?" Mary said, sighing. "I can deal with her. I promise."

"You'd better." With one final warning glare at her sister, and turning on her heels, Anthea departed from the flat. Finally, Mary sat, positioning herself close beside John. A smile touched at the edge of Molly's mouth as she looked to the both of them.

"So I suppose you've got some questions?"

"Yeah." Mary leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees. "Tons, actually. For one, how did you meet Tom?"

"At your wedding. Lovely guy."

"But uh – he's your _boyfriend._"

Molly shrugged. "What's wrong with that?"

Mary decided not to mention the stunning resemblance Molly's choice of suitor had to a certain dead consulting criminal and instead chose to focus on the obvious.

"I just thought you didn't – _do_ – boyfriends," she said, wishing there was a better way to phrase her observation. Molly's following answer was interrupted by the man in question stepping out of the bathroom and hurrying into the bedroom. Molly watched him with a horrifyingly lovesick look in her eye.

"Poor love – he was a bit shocked to see all of you standing around when he woke up this morning – but Toby's really taken a liking to him." She shook her head lightly. "Anyway, Magnussen. No doubt my sister's been especially vague about him?"

"I think I've seen him on the news – something about an enquiry?" John asked hesitantly. "Anthea said he owned some newspapers."

"As well as countless celebrities, thousands of journalists, enough high ranked politicians to fill a small country and my sister. You see, he deals in blackmail. He's a leech – little more than a parasite, actually. Frankly, he turns my stomach."

"And what does having a boyfriend have to do with Magnussen?"

Molly sighed, glancing to Mary in disbelief. "I've just told you about Charles Augustus Magnussen, a parasite who feeds on other people's misery, and you're still focused on the fact that I have a boyfriend?"

"Yes, because it's weird, Molly. Odd. Especially after that whole – _thing._" That was all it was referred to now, the fall and everything that had preceded and followed it. It wasn't healthy, of course, for Molly to sweep such an emotionally charged period in her life under the carpet in such a way, but after living and working with Molly for as many years as she had, Mary knew it was far unhealthier to force her friend into talking about something she wasn't yet prepared to face. That much was evidenced when Molly's smile fell and she dropped her gaze to the floor, picking at the leather of her chair.

"I know it's – weird, me being in a relationship, but it's not the focus of today, okay?" She lifted her head again. "Magnussen is."

The bedroom door opened once more, and Tom ran out, clad in a cheap suit and tie, his previously bleary-eyed mood gone and replaced by the frantic mood of someone late for work.

"Christ, I have to get going – great to see you, Mary, John – see you later Molls!" At this, he bent down and kissed her full on the mouth. "Give my love to Annie!"

"_Annie?_" Mary mouthed to Molly, but she waved a hand, grinning and watching as Tom gave one more wave to the three of them and headed out of 221b, throwing the door shut behind him. Molly's love-filled smile dropped into a frown of concentration and she jumped up from her chair, settling at the table and drawing her laptop closer. Both John and Mary stood, crowding around her and watching intently as architectural plans flashed up on the screen.

"Magnussen soaks up knowledge like a sponge, only choosing to use it where he knows it will cause the most damage. As I said, he's pretty much got information on every person of influence – anyone you can think of, he's got information on. And he keeps it all in here – in Appledore."

Mary scoffed. "What sort of name is Appledore?"

The door to 221b swung open and three security guards, clothed in black, stepped forward. Following on behind them, wearing the air of superiority only a man guarded by mercenaries could, was Magnussen. He tilted his head as he moved forward into the flat, staring at the three of them. His jaw tightened with a reptilian grin. He let his eyes settle on Mary.

"A very unique one Mrs Watson, I assure you." He waved a hand. "Don't mind the security. They go wherever I go."

"That much is obvious," Molly said, the amount of disdain in her voice unparalleled. She stood, just as Magnussen chose to settle himself comfortably on the sofa, as if claiming it. Linking her hands together and holding them against her front, Molly observed the man who had intruded on her flat so casually. "Mr Magnussen, I've been asked to negotiate with you by Lord Martin Smallwood in regard to the matter of some letters. About a month ago, you put – pressure – on him regarding those letters. He'd very much like them back."

Magnussen raised his eyebrows and touched his finger to his mouth, contemplative in his silence. His gaze fell on John and he gave a small nod. John cleared his throat, but said nothing.

"That's a very well-rehearsed speech, Miss Hooper." Magnussen slowly looked back to her. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a small pile of letters and settled them into his lap. Molly let her eyes trace over them. Yellowed, faded ink, handled often, with and without care. Magnussen languidly flicked through each one. "Pity I don't have such a care for listening. Reading however, is a much more interesting sport. I doubt, Miss Hooper, you would care so much for Lord Smallwood's problem if you could see what's within these letters. Very explicit. I believe the word 'pussy' is even used a fair few times."

He withdrew one of the letters and unfolded it, scanning it. He gave a smile, looking to Molly again. "Ah yes. _'I long to taste your juicy little pussy.'_ Hot stuff."

"So you're doing a good deed?"

"No." Magnussen's tone was light. Folding the letter and slipping it back into the pile, he tucked the letters back into his jacket pocket and stood. "I'm simply making sure things go my way."

He pressed his fingers to his forehead in a mock gesture of a salute and strolled merrily from the flat, his security men leading the way. The look of disbelief on Mary's face was stunning.

"Like I said," Molly said after a moment. "Parasite."

John gave a nod, apparently still not quite over the shock of Magnussen's blithely dominant appearance into 221b. "I'm – I'm going to make some tea. Anyone want one?"

"What did he mean, 'making sure things go my way'?" Mary asked, making to sit on the sofa. However, on remembering the last person to sit there, she wisely decided to remain standing. "Trying to rig the enquiry perhaps?"

"Not trying – he _is_ rigging the enquiry."

"Then what was the point of coming here? Showing the letters?" Mary took the mug of tea the returning John offered to her and took a sip. "He knows you know about the letters – and I assume you knew about the… explicit content as well?"

"Lord Smallwood was determined to make that clear to me when he gave me the case. The girl he sent the letters to was 18 at the time," Molly said as she kicked off her shoes and curled up on the armchair. Toby, who on seeing Magnussen had scurried off into the kitchen to hide, bound towards and onto the back of the chair, curling closely against Molly. She reached over and scratched at the top of his head. "But Magnussen isn't averse to lowering her age by a few years if the letters ever go to print."

"So his coming here was showing off? Flaunting that he had the letters?"

"No – it was more than that, I think. He wants to make a deal of some sort, otherwise there's no point to him making his way to the flat – and he only wants to make a deal when he's figured out someone's weakness."

"Bit like a pressure point then," John said calmly, drinking his tea and sitting by Molly's laptop, casually scanning the blueprints still on the screen.

"Bit like that, yeah. But he clearly believes I'm a drug addict—"

"You certainly gave him plenty of help with that," Mary muttered, a remark Molly chose to ignore.

"So in Magnussen's eyes, I'm not a serious threat – which helps."

"Helps with what?"

Molly took another sip of her tea. "Magnussen is in town tonight, and because of that, the letters will be in his safe, in his London office, while he's off having a very nice dinner with the Marketing Group of Great Britain from seven until ten."

"How do you know his schedule?" John asked, his eyes narrowing. Molly shrugged, but failed to meet his eye.

"I just do. Anyway, Mary – I'll see you tonight. About seven."

"And how exactly do you know I'm available?"

Molly grinned and turned her head to John. "John, can Mary come out tonight? It's do with a case."

John rubbed at the back of his neck, unable to stop a laugh coming from his mouth. "Yeah, sure."

"Great!" She looked back to her friend. "Mary, you're available. I'll text you the address later. Now, haven't you two got an ultrasound to get to?"

* * *

The skyscraper which housed CAM Global News held the same standard glossy sheen that all modern buildings in London did, with curved arches and mirror-like windows. Stepping inside it was like stepping into another world entirely, where people dressed crisply, talked into mobiles in hushed tones, never asked questions in regards to anyone else's business except their own. It felt like a world where superficiality was regarded as the truth. When Mary stepped inside, Molly was already there and waiting, a smile on her face.

"Hello. You got here early then."

"So did you."

"Yeah – had to do a bit of prior – um – surveillance." She brushed her hair out of her eyes. "Right, so, there are about fourteen levels of security between where we are right now and Magnussen's office, which in turn, is just below his private flat. C'mon."

She breezed through the building and up a flight of stairs towards a metal escalator, besides which was a card reader. From her coat pocket, Molly retrieved a key card and paused, allowing Mary to catch up.

"That's Magnussen's private lift over there," she said casually. "That lift goes straight to both his penthouse and his office – so obviously, it's where we need to be. But how do we get inside?"

Coming to Molly's side, Mary let out a sigh.

"We're breaking in," she murmured, letting her hands run over her face. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Shut up, you would've come along whether you'd have known or not. Anyway, only Magnussen ever uses this lift – which makes sense, because he's got the only key card."

"So what's that?" Mary asked, nodding to the key card Molly thoughtlessly flipped between her fingers.

"Oh, this is just a standard key card. Managed to get it yesterday – but it only takes us as far as the offices and the canteen. I checked."

"And if you tried to use it on that lift, you'd no doubt get taken away by security and escorted from the building."

Molly nodded. "Mm-hm – but what if this card was corrupted in some way?"

She fished her phone from her pocket and pressed it hard against the key card, an action to which Mary smiled.

"Ah – I had that problem once. Left my phone with my key card—"

"Thus corrupting the magnetic strip, and stopping the card working. Common problem. So, again, what happens if I try to swipe this card against that reader?"

"It'll register as corrupt," Mary answered, quickly catching on to the scheme Molly had planned. Grinning, she followed as Molly strolled towards the reader, still chattering under her breath.

"And of course, you can never tell with a corrupted card if it's an imposter or the real thing – so someone has to check." She swiped the card, pointing to a small black camera embedded in the card reader as she did so. "At this time of night, it's more than likely to be Magnussen's assistant."

Mary frowned. "You do know you don't look like Magnussen don't you? You're the wrong gender for a start."

"Kind of the point," Molly muttered, and she let out a breath, ruffling her hair a little and giving a small, flirtatious smile. Mary blinked. Before she had the chance to ask though, the answer was provided to her.

"Christ, Molls!" Tom's voice, quiet and hurried, echoed out over the intercom system. "What are you doing here?!"

"I just wanted to see my lovely boyfriend," Molly said innocently, giving a small pout. "Is that such a crime?"

"I can get in serious trouble if I let you in Molls."

"I'll be in and out totally quickly – no-one will even know I'm here – _please_ Tom." She bit on her lip, twirling her hair around her finger. "I've been _really_ missing you…"

A soft sigh, followed by a laugh, sounded from the intercom. "You're a bad influence on me Molls."

There came a soft bleep, the card reader screen immediately switched from red to a cool blue and the lift doors slid open. Molly looked to her friend and gave a smile.

"See? Easy peasy."

"Wait – that was Tom. _Tom._"

Molly's brow crinkled, as if she couldn't quite see the problem with the situation. "Yeah – he's Magnussen's assistant. Only a temporary job of course. Stroke of luck really, having him as a guest at your wedding."

She stepped inside the waiting lift. Mary followed suit, shaking her head.

"I knew it." The lift doors closed and it began its ascent. "What are you going to do? I mean, you can't keep up the ruse forever."

"I know I can't!" Molly said. "I'm not silly."

"That doesn't answer the question. What _are_ you going to do? That guy dotes on you."

Molly dismissively waved a hand. "He'll find someone else to dote on. I purposely made it so that in the event of our break-up, he'd soon forget me and, as I said, find someone else."

Mary pursed her lips. Now she knew the relationship was a fraud—how Molly could be so cold though, she didn't know—perhaps she'd finally be able to broach the elephant in the room concerning Tom's appearance.

"Molly?"

"Mm?"

"You don't think you could've chosen Tom because he also…"

Molly whipped her head around, eyes narrowed. "Also what?"

"Also looks a bit like – _him?_"

Molly did not immediately look away as Mary expected, but instead held her gaze. "No."

"Right." Mary nodded shortly. "Okay then."

Coming to a stop, the lift doors opened. Quickly, Molly stepped out, a smile once more affixed to her face as she stepped forward. Said smile soon dropped from her face when both she and Mary came to notice that the office was now seemingly void of anyone at all.

"Huh," Molly said softly. "Strange."

Mary peered around the office, stopping when she spied a hand, splayed out on the floor. Attached it was Tom, sprawled on the floor. Quickly, she moved over to him, crouching low.

"Molly," she whispered. "He's unconscious."

"Oh, crap. He can't have fainted; I just flirted with him a bit, hardly swoon worthy. Knocked out?"

"Yeah." Mary drew her hand away from his head. Spots of blood decorated her fingers. She continued to look him over. "Looks like a blow to the head. He'll be okay though – he's breathing."

Molly's footsteps sounded against the cool stone floor.

"There's another one over here," she said in a whisper, the slight rustle of her clothing indicating that she'd knelt down. "But he's a white supremacist, going by the bald head and the tattoos on his fingers, so I wouldn't bother with him. Stick with Tom, will you?"

Mary craned her neck up to find that Molly had stood and made to begin searching Magnussen's desk—some ugly glass monstrosity of a thing—when a thud from above caused her to look up.

"Magnussen's still in the building." She hovered her hand closely over the seat behind her. "His seat's still warm."

"Molly!" Mary said quietly, moving forward, "don't go up there! If you get caught—"

"I'll get dragged away by security, that's all. It'll be fine, stop fussing and look after Tom. I'm breaking up with him soon; he doesn't deserve concussion on top of that."

"Molly!"

It was no use. Molly had already disappeared up the stairwell and was making her way towards Magnussen's flat.

* * *

Molly moved forward, her footsteps silent against the carpeted hallway.

"What – what would your spouse think?" Magnussen's voice, shaking and nervous, floated down the hallway. Molly tilted her head. Spouse? Ah. Lady Smallwood. She'd found out about the letters then; and Lord Smallwood was obviously now determined to protect his wife (and himself) from any further blackmail. Magnussen, pathetic in the face of losing his life—for he was surely being threatened, presumably at gunpoint—continued to speak, practically begging.

"Upright… honourable… so very English… what would they think, eh?"

The door was ajar, whether by accident or purpose, that wasn't clear. If Magnussen was as clever as he thought he was, he would have left it open. Molly pressed forward, tilting her head. Just as she suspected, there was Magnussen, on his knees with his hands behind his head. Stood in front of him was a stranger, male and broad-shouldered. Lord Smallwood, just as she suspected. Dressed all in black, Lord Smallwood was silent as he cocked the gun in his hands and pointed it straight at Magnussen's head, causing him to blubber all over again.

"Please – please – your wife – I know. You're doing this to protect her, aren't you? Protect her from the truth. Please…"

Enough. Magnussen was a vile man, but he deserved at least a trial before his execution. Gripping the door handle, Molly pushed it open and stepped forward.

"If you're going to commit murder, you should think about hiding your steps a little more carefully, Lord Smallwood."

Magnussen's back straightened a little, his gaze shifting towards Molly.

"Who?" His brow furrowed. His breathing was slow. "That's _not_ Lord Smallwood, Miss Hooper."

Not Lord Smallwood? Words stuttered from Molly, but never the one question she dreaded to ask: if not Lord Smallwood, then who else could it be? The intruder turned on their heels, their gun swinging towards her chest. Harrowed, darkened blue eyes stared back at her.

_Onlychild,doglover,5'.7",footballfan,appendixscar,generalpractitioner,voter,Labour,loyal,liar._

**LIAR.**

A brief observation, subconsciously hidden away and it turned out to be the final piece of the puzzle.

"Is Mary with you?" John Watson's voice was tight, controlled. "Is she here?"

Molly gave a nod, her eyes fixed on the gun. She swallowed. There were only two options now. Two avenues of action.

"So, what do you do now?" Magnussen asked softly. "Kill us both?"

John gave a humourless smile, but as his gaze shifted towards Molly, she saw that merciless nature, the merciless nature of an assassin that he had no doubt used to intimidate Magnussen, but tinged with an edge, a softer edge. Yet when he spoke, his voice was as controlled as ever. "Perhaps."

He wouldn't kill her. Logically and emotionally, he couldn't kill her. If sentiment was truly as powerful as she thought it to be, then there was only one other—one other avenue of action. Molly slowly raised her hands up.

"John, whatever this man has on you, I can help. Please let me help you." She took a step forward. John tightened his grip on the gun.

"Molly, if you take one more step forward, I will kill you."

"No, you won't." Molly felt her eyes widen a little. "I know you won't."

The floor creaked under her feet, and Molly felt as if she had been punched in the gut, a dull pain filling her body, numbing her senses. Her vision blurred, and all she could see was John Watson, staring at her with regret in his gaze.

"I'm sorry, Molly. I'm so sorry."

She squinted, but it was useless. Everything seemed to slow. John, turning, his pistol aimed at Magnussen; overhead, a siren wailed. She was fading now, the dull pain spreading over her, smothering her…

* * *

Fingers, calloused but gentle, touched at her chin. She blinked. Ice-blue eyes, soft and gentle and inviting, shone down at her.

"Unsurprisingly, it isn't like it is in the movies." The sweet, low baritone of Sherlock Holmes, pathologist of St. Bart's echoed in her ears. He smiled, and she could see nothing but him. "There isn't a great big spurt of blood and you don't go flying backwards. Sorry to disappoint."

A soft laugh escaped her lips, but faded away as his smile dropped and he stepped back. Her eyes filled with a blinding white light. Sherlock loomed over her, his dark curls slicked back, clad in an expensive suit, not that lovely work worn white lab coat, and a teasing, malicious grin on his lips. This was not the sweet and kind pathologist she had yearned to forget, but the consulting criminal who had accepted death where she had rejected it.

"The impact isn't spread over a wide area, you see." He touched at her face, the cold steel of the mortuary slab touching against her back. "It's tightly focused, Miss Hooper, so there's little or no energy transfer."

He gave another smirk. "I should know."

Her gaze followed him, watching as he reached forward, drawing the sheet that covered her off her body, leaving her exposed. The bullet hole, buried just below her bare breasts, oozed blood. She felt his calloused fingers at her skin again, gripping at her jaw as he forced her to look at him.

"If we don't do something soon, you're most likely going to die, Miss Hooper, and we don't want that, do we?" He playfully shook her head for her and grinned again. "We need to focus!"

Pain flamed her cheek as his palm struck against her, forcing her eyes wide open. Magnussen and John stood in front of her now, their image frozen in time. Sherlock's eyes bored into hers. His lips curled into a snarl.

"Focus!" He slapped her again and she was twisting, churning, spinning…

CAM. Charles Augustus Magnussen. Parasite. She snapped her head up. Sat up on the mortuary table, blood trickling onto her shirt from the bullet placed inside her by John Watson, her naked corpse lay beside her, still in death. Stood in front of her, Sherlock was smiling. He pressed his hands at either side of her lap, leaning close towards her.

"It is very clever having a Mind Palace, but it won't be much use to you when you've only got three seconds of consciousness left. What's going to kill you, Miss Hooper? Focus. Think!"

"Blood loss," she gasped, and Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, his smile widening.

"Exactly."

He gripped her by her wrists and she lurched forward, back into the room, back to Magnussen and John. Laughing, Sherlock pulled at her arms, tugging her back into position, but his laughter soon faded, concern flitting across his face. There he was; her pathologist. Nothing more than an illusion.

"Forwards? Or backwards? We need to decide which way it is that you'll be falling."

Her eyes narrowed. "What?"

"I told you to trust me, Molly. One hole or two? Is the bullet still inside you, or is there an exit wound?" Sherlock moved towards her back as one, two, three, four, five, six gun diagrams popped up in front of her eyes. She traced over every one, but none were familiar. His grip around her shoulders tightened, his fingers running down her sleeves, and her head swam as she again traced her gaze over each diagram. No, no, no, no, no—

"For Christ's sake, Molly!"

She blinked, and the cool, modern interior of Anthea's office stared back at her. Her sister, sardonic as ever, sat at her desk, her hands tucked under her chin.

"The gun doesn't _matter._ Think about the room instead. What was behind you when you got shot?"

A mirror—no, a series of them—panelled across the wall of Magnussen's flat, loomed against her. Behind her, Anthea gave a sigh. When she spoke, her voice was soft and patient; a voice Molly had heard often enough when she was a child, unable to understand the world and the people crowded within it.

"If the bullet went through you, sister mine, what would you have heard?"

Molly glanced at her over her shoulder. "The mirror shattering."

Anthea gave a smile, folding her arms over her chest. "But you didn't, did you? Therefore…?"

"The bullet…" Molly touched at her abdomen. Blood glistened against her palm. Pain shot through her. Visceral, vicious pain. Good. That was good. "It's still inside me."

Her sister gave a slow, solemn nod. "You need to fall backwards. The bullet is, after all, the cork in the bottle. The bullet itself is blocking most of the blood flow."

"So any pressure," Molly murmured, "or impact on the entrance – that could dislodge it."

"Well done, little sister."

Anthea's sweet, reassuring smile faded as Molly turned, to be replaced by the glittering, malicious, playful gaze of Sherlock Holmes. Walking around her, his hand pressed against the small of her back as he leaned against her.

"Gravity is working for us, Miss Hooper." Her neck, warm with the sensation of his breath, was cool as he stepped back. When he spoke again, his voice was firm. A command.

"Fall now."

Molly obeyed. To fall was to save a life. Only this time, that life was hers, and hers alone.

* * *

His shoes squeaked against the clean linoleum floor of the hospital. To anyone else, John Watson appeared to be a concerned visitor. The illusion was only reinforced when he heard his wife call his name and he duly pulled her towards him and wrapped her into a hug.

"How is she?" he asked softly.

"She's woken up," Mary said, her eyes shining with relieved tears, tears which she quickly wiped away as she stepped back from her husband. "Christ, I'm a mess. But she's pulled through, the idiot pulled through."

She gave a smile, but quickly pointed a finger at her husband, her features stern. "You though – you're in trouble."

"Am I?" John asked, smiling. "What did I do now?"

"No, it was nothing you did. But Molly… As soon as she woke up, straight out of her mouth – 'John'!"

John brushed off the knowledge with a laugh and pulled his wife, his Mary, into another hug, holding her close.

"Trust Molly Hooper to give me a heart attack. I feel like I've barely slept – I need some coffee." Mary pulled herself out of her husband's arms and patted at his upper arm, smiling comfortingly. "Feel free to go and see Molly. She's sleeping right now, so you won't get much out of her – but I doubt that'll last much longer!"

She giggled as she moved away and down the stairs. John watched her leave, his smile slowly fading from his face. With a sigh, he straightened himself up and squared his shoulders. He'd made a split second decision, and it was now time to face the consequences.

* * *

It was hot in the hospital room, too hot. Stuffy, even. The shadows of the window blinds slashed across Molly Hooper's face, somehow making her seem more vulnerable than ever before. Being hooked up to wires and surrounded by hospital equipment didn't help her position. The blades of the rotary fan, situated on the side table, whirled uselessly. John shut the door behind him. Molly's eyelids opened, but her vision was sluggish. He gave an awkward smile as he stepped forward.

"Molly?" His voice was tentative, and his fingers danced against the edges of the bed. He fixed her with a look. When he spoke, his voice shook.

"You don't—" He cleared his throat. "You don't tell Mary. Okay. Look at me and tell me you're not going to tell her."

Molly said nothing. Her eyes fluttered shut once more.

* * *

"Seven Times in Baker Street." The rustle of newspapers caused her to open one eye. A mass of curls was what she saw. Sherlock? No. "Molly Hooper: Sexual Seductress. They've got a subheading too. Cool and Cold on the Streets… Red Hot in the Sheets."

She opened her other eye. Tom grinned back at her. Dropping her gaze, she found newspapers scattered against her lap. Reaching forward, she picked one of them up.

"_'She insisted on wearing the hat?'_" She groaned. "Why did you have to bring the deerstalker into it? Honestly, that's just mean."

Tom shrugged. "Don't know. Seemed like a good idea at the time. The newspapers are running wild with this story – I'm making a lot of money out of you, actually."

Molly threw the newspaper back onto her lap. "One question: you didn't sell any of these Magnussen, did you?"

"Nah, sold them to one of his rivals. Murdoch, to be precise."

A hidden smile touched at Molly's mouth.

"I bet that annoyed him," she muttered. Tom shook his head.

"You lied to me, Molly. And I can't actually see the point of it – because, let's be honest, no-one likes Magnussen. I told you I only worked—"

"_Worked_? Not works."

"Mm." Tom stood, pulling his coat on. "Yet, as I was saying, I told you that I only worked for Magnussen because the creep paid so well. If you'd let me in on the scheme… we might've been friends."

"Too late for that I suppose?"

"Sadly. I'll tell John and Mary you're okay." Winding his scarf around his neck, Tom, with one last smile, departed from the room. Tilting her head back, Molly closed her eyes. She supposed Tom was right, but that was another matter for another day. What mattered was what had landed her in hospital.

"You don't tell Mary." Or more precisely, the matter of _who._ She opened her eyes to find herself encased in the walls of 221b, buried deep inside her mind, stuffed with trinkets and memories of her past and her present. Sat in her armchair, she felt a warm mug of tea being pressed into her hands. John Watson, that humourless smile on his lips, drank from his own mug. Molly leaned forward.

"So – John Watson." **Liar.** The word circled around him. Molly shook her head and waved a hand. That wasn't _important._ There was only one question, one mystery she needed to solve. John Watson… "Who _are_ you?"

The John of her mind smiled. There it was. That softened edge. That was the real John Watson.

All she had to do now was make the connection.

* * *

John felt himself being woken by a harsh ringing. Fumbling for the glowing blue of his mobile screen, he sat up in bed and touched the phone to his ear.

"Mary?" he asked, squinting.

"John." Mary's voice was tight, panicking. "Molly – she's gone."

"What? She's – where did she go?"

"I've no idea. You try finding Molly Hooper in London. Donovan's got a fair few ideas, but they're sketchy. I'll call you later."

"Fine. And Mary?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

She laughed lightly. "I know that, you dolt! I love you too. Now to find Molly."

"Yeah." John heaved a sigh, tucking his chin against his palm. "Good luck."

Hanging up the phone, he discarded it on the mattress. Molly Hooper, loose on the streets of London, with a bullet wound in her chest, put there by him. Switching on the light, John stood and began to dress.

* * *

Donovan tapped a number quickly into her phone as she and Mary quickly headed down the stairs and out of the hospital.

"She's got five bolt holes," Donovan said, pressing the phone to her ear and counting the list off of her fingers. "Parliament Hill, Camden Lock, Dagmar Court, the blind greenhouse in Kew Gardens and the leaning tomb in Hampstead Cemetery."

"Great," Mary said, walking towards her car, sliding inside with Donovan climbing into the passenger seat beside her. Quickly, she started the car and steered out of the car park. "We'll start with those."

It was on the other side of London that John Watson was conducting his own investigations. Stood in a small park—Anderson had insisted, claiming no-one could be trusted—he waited. Anderson soon appeared. Dressed in a shirt and trousers, with a greying beard and greasy hair, he was every bit the conspiracy theorist Mary had described him as. It was hard to believe the man had once been a forensic pathologist.

"Bolt holes." John said, shaking Anderson's hand in greeting. "I need to know every bolt hole Molly Hooper has. Even the unknown ones."

"Leinster Gardens," Anderson said with a knowledgeable nod. "That's her number one bolt hole. Top-top secret."

"Then how do you know about it?"

"I followed her there, one night. She didn't notice me."

John said nothing, only gave a brief note of thanks and turned to leave.

"Why do you want to know?" The question caused him to stop. John gave a blank smile.

"Just concern for a friend."

* * *

Five known bolt holes, and Molly Hooper was not to be found at any of them. Mary paced against the length of the fireplace. The wound was at Molly's front, at fairly close range, and there had been little to no sign of a struggle when she had arrived at the scene and found her friend lying there, close to death. Mary closed her eyes. No. She was supposed to do what Molly did. She had to think. Had to come to the only, logical conclusion. She couldn't let emotion get in the way.

"She knew who shot her."

Donovan shook her head a little. "Sorry, what?"

"The bullet wound – it was in her lower chest. She was facing whoever it was that shot her."

"Why didn't she tell us then? If she recognised the shooter, she should've told us."

Mary drew her finger against her bottom lip, her eyebrows knitted together in thought. "Maybe she was protecting them."

"Could be. Why though?"

"I don't know," Mary replied, letting out a breath and sitting down. Although she would be the first to admit just how difficult Molly could be, there was one thing she always was, and that was protective. She lived to protect people—why else would she be a consulting detective? But this was the first time Molly Hooper would ever seek to protect a _criminal._ Mary shook her head, looking to the expectant Donovan. "I just – I don't know."

Molly Hooper, protecting a criminal. Protecting someone who had brought harm to her. Why? Why would she—Mary stopped. The conclusion, the only logical conclusion, reared up in front of her, terrifyingly and wholly clear.

Was this how Molly felt, whenever she came to the end of her deductions? Hollow, free of thought but flooded with emotion? Mary's heart tightened. There was only one reason Molly would protect a criminal she knew: Mary had to know the criminal too. She had to have a deep, personal, emotional connection with them.

Her ears pounded with the dull sense of a phone ringing. She felt Mrs. Hudson's hand press gently against her shoulder. She looked up to see her holding out her phone.

"You'd better answer it dear."

On the screen was the name of Molly Hooper.

* * *

Leinster Gardens was an expensive enough area; expensive enough to appear important, but not posh enough for people to stop and stare in admiration. Just right for a consulting detective who wished to avoid attention, but never could quite resist the idea of drama. John walked slowly down the street, his hands in his coat pockets and his fingers just touching the cool metal of the gun hidden within those pockets. The night was still, and while it didn't unnerve him, it made him alert and as he walked, his head turned, looking, seeking, for any clues.

The only clue he was given was a phone ringing. Turning his head, he found, perched on a low wall, a cheap phone, wrapped in a bright pink case. Picking it up, he found only two words on the screen.

_Answer Me._

He smirked briefly and pressed the green call button, putting the phone to his ear.

"So," he asked, peering down side streets and among shadows, "where are you?"

"23 and 24 Leinster Gardens." Her voice was weak. She was probably hooked up to some morphine somewhere, helping her through the pain. A pang of guilt touched at John, but he continued to walk. "Have a look. If you are who I think you are… then you'll see it immediately."

John came to a stop. There it was—23 and 24 Leinster Gardens.

"You knew I'd come here," John stated. "How?"

"You're intelligent – I knew you'd immediately go to the person nobody bothers with."

"Yeah, well – no-one trusts a conspiracy theorist."

"That's true. Have you had a good look at the house then? Have you seen it?"

John scanned the two houses. No light in the windows, no door knobs and no letter box.

"They're empty."

"They were demolished years ago – originally to make way for the London Underground, as a vent for the old steam trains. Only the front section of the house remains now. Pity really." She held in a breath. "Step inside please, John."

John obeyed, moving forward and pushing open the door.

"I suppose you own this place then?"

"Acquired it during a case, years ago," Molly answered. "I was forced into a poker game with the Clarence House Cannibal. If I won, I got this house. If she won, she got my kidneys. Quite tense actually, that game."

True to Molly's word, the house was little more than a shell. Nothing else but a narrow corridor, where, right at the end, Molly Hooper sat, her face obscured, but her long brown curls, as ever, falling down past her shoulders and the collar of her coat propped up. A morphine drip was stood beside her. John gave a small smirk. His fingers remained rested against his gun.

"What do you want?"

"John Watson was stillborn in October 1972," Molly said over the phone. "His gravestone is in Chiswick Cemetery. Five years ago, you acquired his name, his date of birth and his identity. A pretty common trick among your sort of people I suppose. Always wondered why you never had friends with a longer relationship than five years."

"Now you know, don't you? You were slow though – you have to admit that."

"I was. Congratulations, by the way. You must've wanted to get away really badly to be that convincing." There was a pause when John made no attempt to answer. "How good a shot are you, by the way? Just want to check."

John easily retrieved the gun from his pocket and he aimed it squarely at the consulting detective's forehead. "Do you want to find out?"

"No, I wouldn't do that if I were you. That homeless person you gave a quid to, on your way here? Part of my homeless network. I think, with my body and their witness statement, Scotland Yard would at least list you as a suspect."

John lowered his gun.

"Fine. That was pretty much a last resort anyway."

"Glad to know. I still want to know how good you are."

She wanted to know? Good. John reached into his coat pocket and brought out a single 50p coin. Balancing it on his fingers, he casually flicked into the air and aimed his gun. The firing of the gun echoed, and the coin rattled against the concrete floor as it fell. John watched the consulting detective, but she made no reaction. The reason as to why soon became apparent, for a shadow appeared on the wall. John turned. Shaky, sweating, breathing heavily, Molly Hooper looked like she had been through hell and back. A stronger twinge of guilt pushed at John and he couldn't help but lower his gaze.

"It doesn't hurt – much." He looked up to see Molly give a weak smile. She drew the phone from her ear and dropped it into her coat pocket. She nodded towards the coin. John briefly glanced back at the figure.

"A dummy." He dropped the pink phone from his fingers and let it fall to the floor with a clatter. "Should've guessed, shouldn't I?"

Carelessly, he kicked at the coin and Molly bent down, scooping it up between her fingers. Her other hand clutched at her torso.

"Over a distance of six feet, and you fail to make a kill shot. Either you're a terrible assassin or…" Her gaze flicked up to meet his. "You never meant to kill me."

"Enough to hospitalise you, but not enough to kill you."

Molly smiled. "I'll take the case, by the way."

"There isn't a case."

"Yes there is. Yours. And I'll take it." Molly considered him for a moment. Anger, searching and confused, glossed over her features. "Why didn't you just come to me in the first place? I could've helped. You didn't have to get into this mess."

For a long while, John didn't speak. "Mary. She – she can't ever know that I lied to her, Molly. It'd break her, and I'd lose her – forever. I can't let that happen, Molly. She's… she's the best thing that ever happened to me."

Molly nodded. For the first time, he saw how her eyes shone with the threat of tears.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, stepping backwards towards a fuse box. She turned on one of the switches. John's heart shattered. He turned on his heel. The figure, the dummy, stood. Pulling the brown wig from her head, Mary ruffled at her blonde hair. Her eyes were dark, but her expression was blank. Carefully and calmly, she stood and folded down her coat collar.

"You have to talk to each other," Molly said from behind him. "Now."

* * *

Sat at the kitchen table, Anthea crossed her legs and ran her hand through her hair, impatiently tapping her fingers against the wooden surface. A radio was perched on the worktop, tuned to a channel where some traditional carol or other was being sung by some awfully maudlin choir.

"Please tell me this torture is nearly over, Mother. This is getting ridiculous."

Curled up in a chair, her legs dangling over the arm, Molly intently read the newspaper in her hands. The headline screamed out at her. _Lord Smallwood suicide: Shamed peer takes own life. _Her mother, whistling happily along to the tune of the carol, adjusted the arrangement of the Christmas crackers, her brown hair (nearing the age of 60 and yet to have to dye her hair was a fact their mother prided herself on) tied neatly back. On hearing her eldest daughter complain however, she paused and raised an eyebrow.

"Annie, do shut up. It's Christmas." She picked up a cup of the punch, eyeballing her eldest. "Enjoy it."

"For the last time," Anthea called, turning in her chair as her mother swept from the kitchen, "my name is _Anthea!_"

She sighed heavily and tucked her chin against her arm, looking to her sister. "You're lucky you know. You got the good name."

"I'm sure I did," Molly said distractedly, her focus still on the newspaper. Her focus only shifted when she saw her sister's fingers enter her peripheral vision, clutching tightly around the newspaper. Glancing up, she frowned. Anthea smiled, but only slightly. (Heaven forbid she was seen to smile during Christmas.)

"You've been looking at that paper for approximately an hour now."

"So?"

"You shouldn't blame yourself – you did your best."

Molly swallowed, and tried a smile, but it didn't take. "I know. It's a matter of professional pride, isn't it?" She pretended to idly flick through the pages. "As well as personal."

"Both have to take a beating sometimes, little sister." Anthea sighed and stepped away. "Well – I think I might have some punch. Father usually puts some alcohol in it. Perhaps taking a sip of that will enable me to cope with Mother's incessant need for cheerfulness."

In the living room meanwhile, Mary sat, curled up on the sofa with a blanket over her knees and an open book in her hands. The fireplace roared and crackled as she quietly read. It was all quite quaint, really. Everything seemed to be quite quaint in this house. Peaceful, almost. At first, Mary hadn't quite figured out why Molly had insisted on dragging her along to Christmas at her parents' house—then she'd _seen_ Molly's parents, and her reasoning was made abundantly clear.

"Mary!" Mrs Hooper beamed at her. She held out the steaming mug of tea to her. "There you are – a lovely cup of tea for you."

"Thank you very much." She pointed to the book in her lap. "Did you write this?"

"Oh, that! Yes, I wrote that – silly little thing really."

"I wouldn't call mathematics silly." Mr Hooper strolled into the living room, a glass of punch in one hand, and wooden logs wedged under his other arm. Balding and small in height, he was a cheerful fellow, and his brown eyes were almost a replica of his youngest daughter's. He placed them by the fireplace, aiming a smile at Mary as he took a sip of his punch. "You must excuse my wife. She's abhorrently modest."

"Oh hush," Mrs Hooper said, swallowing a smile.

"But you were a mathematician?" Mary asked.

"Yes. Carried on for a little while after Annie was born – you know, lecturing and what have you – but soon found out that my heart wasn't really in it anymore. So I gave it up." She turned to her husband, who had begun to softly hum. She rolled her eyes. "No humming, I told you! Come on, you have to help me peel the potatoes. I wanted Annie to do it but she's disappeared somewhere."

Just like that, she was zipping out of the living room. Her husband made a small _tsk_ sound and shook his head, gulping back the rest of his punch.

"Well, duty calls. I can never bear to argue—"

Whatever way he was going to finish his sentence, it remained a mystery, as the arrival of John Watson caused Molly's father to quieten, chuckle and offer an apology before he made a discreet departure.

John was the first to speak.

"Hi."

Mary swallowed a little. Now he was here, the USB, that tiny piece of electrical machinery she had kept inside her pocket for much of the months of silence that had haunted the both of them, felt dominant. She sipped at her tea, avoiding his eyes.

"Hello."

* * *

They travelled to 221b Baker Street in stoic silence. Mary stood at the dining room table, her hands on her hips, watching as John walked past her and stood, his expression hollow, blank and waiting, by the fireplace. Molly barely made it past the door, only able to hobble towards the doorway and brace herself against it, breathing heavily. Nothing was said.

"So," Mary said, with her tone vicious in anger. "I married a psychopath, and my best friend's a manipulative junkie."

"Yes," Molly breathed, giving a small laugh as she pressed her hand to her abdomen. Mary's eyes glittered as she glared.

"Shut up, Molly. Just shut up. And frankly, stay that way, because this is not funny. Not this time." Her voice shook at that, her tears cracking through the veneer of her anger, and she hated herself for it. She looked to the man stood by the fireplace, the man she had once dared to call her husband.

"What – what the hell did I ever do, in my life?" Her eyes brimmed with tears. "To deserve you?"

Molly heaved a sigh, as if it was entirely obvious. "Everything, Mary."

"I said this _wasn't_ funny, Molly."

"I'm not joking. Mary, let's face it. You were a doctor. You went to war. You were never meant to—" She hissed as another wave of pain hit her, but she made herself focus on Mary. "You were never meant to be a little wife in the suburbs. In fact, you were in the suburbs for little more than a month, and at the first sign of trouble, you stormed a crack den and sprained a junkie's wrist! Aren't you seeing a pattern here?"

"Molly." Her name came out as a warning. Molly shook her head. She resumed speaking.

"I'm your best friend. And, at my core, I'm a high level genius who solves crimes as an alternative to sticking needles in my arm. For fuck's sake – the _landlady_ used to run a drug cartel and even now, smokes marijuana on a daily basis."

Mary blinked, the vicious truth in Molly's words sinking slowly in. She looked as though Molly had slapped her.

"He wasn't supposed to be like that though," she whispered. A tear rolled down her cheek. John shifted his weight from foot to foot. Still, he didn't look at her. "Why does _he_ have to be like that?"

"Because you chose him, Mary."

Mary laughed bitterly, turning away from Molly.

"Okay, yeah. I did do that. But I've just got one question. One small question: why is everything always MY FUCKING FAULT?!" Angered, she kicked out, and a chair fell to the floor with a loud thud. Molly flinched, but John, still and quiet, squared his shoulders and sniffed slightly, his hands crossed tightly behind his back.

"Mary," Molly spoke softly, akin to speaking to a child having a temper tantrum. Her gaze followed Mary as she paced across the living room. "You're pregnant. You have to be calm. You have to calm down."

This seemed to get through to Mary, for she closed her eyes and gave a short nod.

"Alright." She opened her eyes. "Your way then? Fine. We'll do it your way."

Finally moving from her spot, she made a grab for the fallen dining chair and shoved it into the space between the two armchairs. Venomously, she glared at John.

"Sit down. You're a client now, so you're going to sit. You're going to sit down, and we're going to decide whether we want you or not."

He didn't question her, and neither did Molly. Instead, he obeyed.

* * *

Hesitantly, John stood in front of her. His hands were locked tight around his chest, holding in whatever it was that he had to say. Mary smiled, rather hopelessly.

"You're okay?" _It should be him asking me that._

"Can't quite believe you're the one asking that." John muttered, apparently able to read her mind.

Mary gulped back another sip of tea and tried to ignore the way her teeth chattered against the mug. Putting it to one side, she got up, one hand on her swollen belly. John stepped forward to help, but a tiny shake of her head made him stop and step back. She felt him staring at her as she came to stand in front of him. She could feel her chest grow tight as she reached into the back pocket of her jeans and brought out the small USB that seemed so innocent. The ink was faded, the consequence of hours spent turning it over, and over, and over, in her fingers.

"Now?" John asked, almost incredulously, his eyebrows knit together. "Months of silence and we do it now. Right. Must be Christmas then."

_A.G.R.A._ Mary clutched the drive tightly.

"What's Christmas without a little family drama?" she murmured.

* * *

Mary eyed the USB that John had slammed down on the table beside her chair.

"A.G.R.A," she read out, picking it up.

"Yeah. Um," John cleared his throat, grimacing a little. "They're my initials."

Mary looked away. Her own husband and she didn't even know his name. John shifted in the chair a little.

"Everything – and I mean everything – about who and what I was, it's on there. Just don't read it in front of me."

"Why? Will I fall out of love with you or something if I do?"

He said nothing, but held her gaze. That was enough. Sighing, she shoved it into her coat pocket.

"How much do you know then?" John asked, wrenching his gaze from Mary to Molly.

"Looking at your skill set, you were an intelligence agent. As you used your skills to disappear, you're on the run from something – but Magnussen somehow figured out your secret, which led to your decision to kill him. You most likely befriended Tom in order to get close to Magnussen."

"Look who's talking," John scoffed, but he soon sobered. "Magnussen has stuff on me. Information – info that would lead to me dying in prison – and that's at a best case scenario."

"And you were just going to kill him."

"Yes. People like me deal with people like Magnussen." The coldness with which he replied made Mary flinch.

"Deal with," she repeated softly. "You were an assassin then? And I didn't see it. How the hell did I not see it?"

"Oh come on, you did see it – and you still agreed to marry me. Because however much you hate to admit it, you know – you _know_ – that she," at this, John pointed to Molly, "is right. It's what you like. It's what you seek out."

Mary was reticent, her expression stony.

"This stuff," Molly's words came out in spurts and stutters, the pain of her wound biting further into her as every minute ticked by. "Magnussen – has on you. You want it – back?"

John shrugged. A defensive gesture, one he'd picked up from birth. "Why should I believe you'll help me?"

"Because you saved – my life."

Mary frowned in disbelief. "No he didn't. He shot you."

"When I – happened upon him with Magnussen, John had – a problem – moreover, he had a witness – there were only two actions he – he could possibly take. One, kill both me and Magnussen and leave. But – sentiment – got the better of him. One shot to the chest, precisely – calculated, to hospitalise me and scare Magnussen. But he couldn't shoot – Magnussen like he'd planned."

"I was still in the building," Mary said quietly, eyeing John. "Could've been named a suspect."

"Mm. So he instead knocked Magnussen – unconscious – calculating that he would rather – exploit the fact of John's involvement rather than – share any information – with the police. He then – left the way he – came." Molly let out a heavy, jagged breath. "Did I – miss anything – Mr Watson?"

"The part where he apparently saved your life," Mary said.

"He phoned the ambulance, Mary."

Mary shook her head. "No, I did."

"He phoned first. A quick look at – his phone – would tell you that." She tilted her head at John, who silently removed his phone from his pocket and handed it to Mary. Arching an eyebrow, she took it and quickly scanned through.

_Calls – Outgoing – 999 EMERGENCY._

"You found me only – five minutes after – he'd left."

"So left to me, you would've died?"

"Sorry." Molly grimaced. "It's the truth."

Footsteps thundered up the staircase to 221b, interrupting any further conversation. Two paramedics ran into the room.

"Did somebody call an ambulance?" the first one asked. "We were told there was a shooting."

"About last week there was," Molly said, rising to her feet and speaking quickly. Too quickly. "But my pulse is very erratic, and I'm pretty sure I'm suffering from internal bleeding – you may need to—"

What else she had to say faded with a deep, painful cry and she buckled, with only the support of Mary and John stopping her from falling. The paramedics quickly got to work, supporting Molly's weight, but she ignored them, her attention fully on Mary.

"Magnussen is all that matters now. You can trust John – you know you can."

"He shot you Molly," Mary whispered, but Molly shook her head, laughing softly.

"I injected heroin into my body for five years, Mary – I've done far more damage to myself than he could ever do." Another cry of pain flooded out of her and Mary finally stepped back, allowing the paramedics to work. The soft, painful whimpers of the consulting detective faded as she was led down the staircase. Mary risked a look at her husband. She didn't have to guess to know he was most likely thinking exactly the same thing as her: what now?

* * *

"Have you read it?"

Mary craned her neck up to look at her husband. "I've thought about that night long and hard, John. I've thought about the things Molly said, the things you said – the things _I_ said. I've thought about what I wanted to say to you. These months haven't been easy. I've – hated you, I've missed you… even tried to forget about you."

"Understandable."

She let out a laugh, her hand flying to her mouth in an attempt to conceal it. John returned her laugh with a smile, shuffling on his feet a little.

"But," Mary said, gaining her composure, "I've chosen these words with care."

John swallowed thickly. "Fine."

She looked at him. For a long time, she looked at him. Peered at him, trying to read him. Cold, that was what he was. Cold, defensive, scared, anxious—everything she was, and more. Turning to the fireplace, she threw the USB onto the fire.

"I haven't read the file." Tears spurted from her eyes. "I don't want to read it. I'm not too scared, or afraid of what I may find – I just don't want to read it. Because you're my husband, and I love you. Whatever problems are in your past, that's where they'll stay. Frankly, I'm far more interested in your future."

The faded initials of A.G.R.A. were rapidly engulfed by the flames. John cleared his throat. His voice was tight, and tears pricked at his eyes.

"Mary – you – you don't even know my name."

"John Watson is good enough for me," Mary said, a smile appearing through her tears. She wiped at her nose. "Is it good enough for you too?"

His voice was soft with relief. "Oh God yes."

He stepped forward and they engulfed one another, wrapping each other tightly in their arms, rocking gently on the spot. Mary's soft cries soon gave way to silence; a silence they both savoured.

"This doesn't mean that I'm not still incredibly pissed off with you," Mary murmured, to which John chuckled, rubbing softly at her back.

"I know, I know," he whispered.

"It'll come out now and then."

"I'm fully prepared for it," John said with a smile, drawing away from her a little. "More than I deserve really. I did shoot your best friend."

"Yes you did." She poked him in the chest. "And you can mow the bloody lawn from now on, mister."

John's smile widened. "Alright. And you get to name the baby."

"I was always going to name the baby."

"Fair enough."

* * *

Molly took another drag of her cigarette, wandering nonchalantly up and down the garden path. The front door opened, and her sister stepped out, drawing a lighter and a packet from her jacket pocket. Molly's eyebrows shot upwards.

"You smoke now?"

"Always have – you're just too busy to notice," Anthea retorted, lighting a cigarette and stuffing the lighter and packet back into her pocket before she tucked her arm against her chest, regarding her sister. "Glad you gave up on the Magnussen business, by the way."

Molly snorted. "Of course you are."

"I'm still curious though – I mean, he's not your usual puzzle. You tend to gravitate towards psychopaths, not blackmailers." She inhaled her cigarette. "Why the fixation on Magnussen?"

"Because I hate him," Molly said simply, as if she were making small talk. "He's a parasite who attacks people he deems different and views people as little more than assets."

"That's viable enough."

"I might ask you the same thing, by the way. Why do you – _protect_ him?"

"I don't. He just never causes too much damage – to anyone important that is. No, unfortunately he's too clever for that. That's the main problem really – he's a businessman."

"He's a newspaper magnate."

"A necessary evil," Anthea remarked lightly.

"Are you two smoking?!" Their mother's enraged voice sounded from behind them. Rapidly, the two women whirled around, hiding their cigarettes behind their backs, speaking simultaneously.

"No!"

"Anthea did it!"

Their mother, eyeing them suspiciously, sighed and rolled her eyes, shutting the door. Molly giggled and turned away, continuing to smoke.

"Trust you to try and stick my neck in it," Anthea mused. "There's a job offer for you, by the by. I'd like you to decline it."

"I decline it."

"Good. I'll pass on the regrets."

Molly furrowed her brow. "What was it, by the way?"

"MI6 – they wanted to place you back into Eastern Europe. Undercover of course."

"I'm guessing I'd be dead if I'd taken the job."

"Within six months or so. Anyway, you're more valuable here, in England."

"Is that it? I'm just… _valuable?_"

Anthea smiled knowingly and dropped her cigarette, stubbing it out with her heel. "What else would you have me say?"

"How about 'Merry Christmas'?"

Anthea tilted her head. This time, it was her who raised an eyebrow. "That's going a bit too far."

She headed inside. Molly smirked. Trust her sister to cut off any sentiment before it could truly take hold and fester. In a way, she was stunningly predictable like that. Still, childhood habits. Hard to break.

Quite unexpectedly, her phone chimed with a new message. Dropping her cigarette on the pathway, Molly checked it.

_You'd better watch out._

She shook her head. Probably a wrong number. Happened often enough. Pulling her coat tighter around herself, she headed back inside the house. Her cigarette, abandoned, gradually continued to burn.

* * *

Curled up on the sofa, the blanket spread out over both of their knees, Mary and John sat, his fingers tracing lovingly against her temple as she snuggled close to him. His other hand cupped at her swollen belly—their baby, the child they would bring into the world together. The thought made Mary grin. She rolled her head to stare affectionately at her husband.

"You realise Molly got us out here to see her parents for a reason, don't you?"

"Yep. Her lovely mum and dad – a perfect example of married life."

"That woman," Mary said with a shake of her head, gazing affectionately at her bump and the place where John gently cupped it, his thumb drawing circles over the material of her shirt. "She's always got an ace up her sleeve. That's the thing with Molly I think. You have to expect the unexpected."

Feeling John's hand fall away from her bump alerted her to the knowledge that something was wrong.

"John?" His head lolled back against the sofa and his body went limp. Mary gasped. "Jesus! John, can you hear me?"

The living room door opened and Molly entered. "Don't touch the punch."

Mary struggled up to her feet. "Molly! What the hell did you do?! Did you just _drug_ my husband?"

"A simple sleeping agent, slipped into the punch. Don't worry, it's perfectly harmless." Molly dived back out of the living room and as quickly as she was able, Mary followed on. Mrs Hooper, Mr Hooper, even Anthea… all of them unconscious and all of them sleeping soundly. Molly bustled around the kitchen, a sleek grey laptop tucked under her arm.

"Molly, what is going on?"

"The security of the free world pretty much depends on this laptop." She held it up to emphasise her point. As if on cue, helicopter blades sounded in the distance and Molly grinned. "Aha! There's our lift."

Mary felt her fists clench tightly. "Okay. How much are we in trouble?"

"None at all – but we could be." Molly was irritatingly chipper, in both her gait and her voice. "One false move, and we'll have betrayed the security of the United Kingdom and we'll be thrown in jail for high treason. Um, do you have your gun with you?"

"I didn't bring my gun with me to your parents!"

Molly shot her a withering look. "It's in your coat isn't it?"

"Of course it is," Mary muttered and with a pointed glare at her friend, she grabbed it off the coat hook and pulled it on. Against her better judgement, she followed Molly out of the cottage.

In the near distance, a helicopter waited in a large field. Molly walked quickly towards the helicopter. A hand on her stomach, Mary scurried after her, her eyes tracing over the vehicle. The obnoxiously elegant CAM Global News logo was splashed against the side. She gave a groan.

"Oh God – we're not seriously going up against _Magnussen?_"

"Yep!" Molly said brightly, and she beamed at the pilot who jumped out and opened the door for her. "Thank you very much."

Mary reluctantly allowed the help given by the pilot as she clambered in after her friend. Heavily pregnant, and she was going up against the most powerful blackmailer in the country. As of that moment, Molly's words that night were ringing extremely true.

Unheard by Mary, but felt by Molly, was the chime of a phone. Surreptitiously, Molly took out her phone. Another new message.

_You'd better not cry._

"Everything okay?" Mary shouted over the sound of the helicopter blades.

"Yeah," Molly replied, shoving her phone back into her pocket. "Just a wrong number."

* * *

Appledore was a sprawling map of modern architecture, dotted with sharp, triangular points and surrounded by white, sweeping curves. Escorted inside by a security man as the helicopter departed, Mary found that the interior of Appledore was much the same. Void of life, revelling in the coolness that the modern, minimalist architecture brought. She and Molly were led towards a large white sofa on which sat Magnussen, a whiskey glass in his hand. He grinned on seeing Mary's swollen belly.

"My, my. You're getting _big_ now, aren't you? I wonder if John Watson's progeny will follow the same path as him. Sit down, Mrs Watson."

"I'm fine," Mary said crisply. "Thank you."

"Good, good. I was just watching a film. It's very funny."

Mary glanced over her shoulder to find a projected reel of footage. A bonfire; Molly and John sprinting towards it.

"This is my favourite part," Magnussen said. The Molly on the screen screamed out one word: _Mary._ The terror was clear to hear, and see. Magnussen chuckled heartily.

"It was you," Molly remarked, oddly calm.

"Yes, of course. At first it was hard to pinpoint exactly what your pressure point was, Miss Hooper. I never believed the drugs thing – but my, look at how much you care about Mary Morstan."

"So you put me in a fire simply for leverage?" Mary asked thoughtfully, rubbing at her stomach. Magnussen licked his lips.

"Don't worry, Mrs Watson – I wouldn't have let you burn. People were standing by." He set his glass down on the clear glass table in front of him and stood, brushing his jacket down. "Perhaps I should explain something to you about leverage."

He stepped towards the wall and swiped his finger across the glass. The footage of the bonfire disappeared. "It's a very cyclical thing. Anthea Hooper has a pressure point: her junkie little sister, Molly Hooper. Molly's pressure point is her best – and only – friend, Mary Watson. Mary's pressure point is her murderer husband. If I own Mary Watson's husband, then I own Anthea Hooper. In fact, I'm getting her for a gift."

Contentment settling into his hollow features, he sat back down on the sofa. He glanced pointedly at Molly. Stoic in her expression, she stepped forward and dumped the laptop into his lap.

"It's an exchange, _not_ a gift." She pointed towards the laptop. "Unless you have the password, that laptop is useless to you. In return for that password, I—"

"Want all material pertaining to the man you know as John Watson. Oh, but he is _bad_, that one. So many dead people." He aimed an amused smile at Mary. "You should see what I've seen. Very amusing."

"I don't want to see it," Mary said evenly. "He's my husband. That's all."

"Enough." Molly was firm. "Let us see Appledore."

Magnussen considered her command. Finally, he set down the laptop. "Very well. Honestly though, I expected something better. Your problem, Miss Hooper, is that you make your desires far too transparent."

Molly's mouth dropped open. "S-sorry?"

"This laptop holds every secret of the free world. It clearly has a GPS locator, embedded somewhere deep inside its machinery. By now, your sister will have noticed its absence, and security services will be converging on this house. On their arrival, they will find top secret information in my hands, and thus have every justification to turn my vaults upside down. No doubt they'll discover further information similar to the information stored on this laptop and I'll be summarily imprisoned. That just leaves you to be exonerated and restored to your squalid little flat to solve crimes with Mr and Mrs Psychopath, while your grateful big sister indulges your every whim for helping her capture me. It spins a _very_ pretty tale. But it lacks conflict. It lacks bite."

Mary tilted her head. Her gun felt heavy in her pocket. "There's plenty enough conflict for me."

"If there was conflict I wouldn't be smiling, Mrs Watson."

"Conflict or not," Molly said icily. "It's still going to happen."

"No. It's not. For one very simple reason; you, Miss Hooper, have made a mistake." He let his comment hang in the air before rising to his feet again. "But now – you wanted to see the Appledore vaults. Let me show them to you."

With a steady hum, he moved forward. Molly gave a tiny nod, and Mary followed, with the consulting detective in her wake. Magnussen led them through a set of glass doors, into a sleekly designed office, where a computer sat on a wooden desk, humming quietly. Magnussen strolled straight past it, towards a set of wooden doors. He smiled at them.

"The entrance to my vaults. This is where I keep all my assets."

He swung them open, but didn't step inside. He seemed too busy, rejoicing in the shocked silence that spread over the two women. There was nothing. White walls, bright lights, one chair. That was it. He stepped forward and turned, sitting in the chair, touching his hands together.

"You're aware of mind palaces. Aren't you, Miss Hooper?" Molly's jaw went slack, her eyes widening. Magnussen leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. "The Appledore vaults are my mind palace. I can send out for something if I so choose, but often when I need something, I sit here, close my eyes and head down into my vaults. I can go anywhere I choose. The possibilities – the memories – are endless. Oh, I think I might visit those files on Mr Watson. Yes, this is one of my favourites. Such a bad boy. So many wet jobs for the CIA – a bit of freelance now – gruesome – exciting."

His eyes flicked open. "No wonder you fell for him, Mrs Watson."

"You don't have any documents then," Mary said. "You don't have anything here. You don't have _proof._"

"He doesn't need proof," Molly murmured, shakily. "He's in news."

"Exactly. I have no need to _prove_ anything – I just have to print it." He glanced at his watch and stood. "You two will be headline news tomorrow – trying to sell state secrets to me in exchange for money. Tut… _tut._"

He pushed past the two and headed towards the exit.

"I can't wait to see you arrested!" he called cheerfully over his shoulder, making his way outside. Mary finally looked to her friend. She was small, quiet in defeat.

"Molly? We must have a plan."

"I – I don't." Molly stared at her friend, and Mary's heart almost broke; not for herself, but for her friend. There was only one other time she had seen Molly this helpless, and her friend had died as a result. Mary reached forward and squeezed her hand.

"We'll think of something."

"I hope so," Molly whispered. "I really hope so."

And so the two women turned and walked outside, unaware of what awaited them.

* * *

The sky was darkening, heading into early evening when Mary pushed the door open and stepped out, a silent Molly following on behind her. Magnussen stood at the far end of the patio, his hands in his trouser pockets as he scanned the sky.

"They are taking their time, aren't they?" he murmured as Mary came to stand at his side, though she did not look at him. Magnussen seemed to treat despair and misery as one large joke; she and John were clearly his punchline of choice. She supposed it was a pity that she wasn't prepared to provide him with the entertainment he sought so vindictively.

"You can tell you were in the military, you know?" Magnussen mused. "The ramrod posture, the staunch facial expression when faced with ultimate danger. I'd _very_ much like to flick your face. Can I do that? Let me flick your face."

Mary began to shake her head.

"Just let him do it Mary," Molly said, stood by the glass doors.

"Tom could do it without blinking. I wonder if you can." Magnussen stepped forward and leaned down towards Mary. Without hesitation and a slight laugh, he flicked his middle finger, hard, against her cheek. "I know who your husband hurt. I know who your husband murdered. I know people who want to hurt him. I know where they live. I know their phone numbers."

He punctuated every sentence with a hard flick to Mary's cheek. The threat, and the pleasure he took from it, was horrifyingly easy to see, not just in his smile, but his demeanour, his soft tone of voice and even his posture.

Overhead, a helicopter approached, flying low, swooping over the roof to hover a short distance away. Even with the bright lights, the face of Anthea Hooper was clear to see.

"Molly Hooper and Mary Morstan." Her voice boomed out over a speaker. "Stand away from that man."

Security teams, armed to the teeth, surged forward and surrounded the patio. Molly made to move, walking around to Mary's side. Her voice was loud over the whirling sound of the helicopter.

"So the Appledore vaults? They're just in your mind – nowhere else?"

"No – they aren't real, never have been and never will be."

Anthea's voice echoed out again. "Molly Hooper and Mary Morstan, step _away._"

"Molly," Mary's voice was quiet, but audible. "We have to do something."

_One wrong move._ Molly's words echoed inside her head, a dull reminder of her own arrogance, her own stupidity. She had been so _blind_, planned it out so carefully… and it was for nothing. She had failed—lost. She had taken a beating and it was one from which she wouldn't recover. It was more than that however; she hadn't just taken a beating. She had systematically rounded up every one of her friends, and even her sister, and drawn them into the spider web that was Charles Augustus Magnussen.

He grinned at them over his shoulder.

"There's nothing _to_ be done, Mrs Watson! I'm not a villain – I have no evil plan!" He shrugged. "I'm just a businessman, acquiring assets. Now you're one of them! Sorry Miss Hooper – no chance for you to be a heroine _this_ time around."

"Molly Hooper and Mary Morstan! Stand away from that man – do it _now!_"

"You might want to do your research, Mr Magnussen!" Molly stepped closer to him. Her eyes were filled with hate. "I'm not a heroine!"

She raised her arm, aiming the gun straight at Magnussen's head. Mary pushed forward.

"Molly, _don't!_"

"I'm a consulting detective! _Merry Christmas!_"

She fired. Mary froze.

"_Jesus Christ!_"

"Get away from me Mary!" Molly ordered, raising her hands over her head. Anthea's voice sounded again, panicked and hurried.

"Do not fire on Molly Hooper! _Do not fire!_"

A nest of laser sights fell on Molly's chest. Taking a breath, she cautiously dropped down onto her knees. Total surrender. The dead corpse of Magnussen lay sprawled against her.

Numbly, Anthea drew her microphone from her head and set it in her lap. Her sister, her little sister, so scared of the world and everything in it; her little sister who had built up walls to stop anyone getting in, was a murderer. Tears rolled down her sister's cheeks.

* * *

The airfield was private, squirrelled away in some small part of the countryside. Molly, lined up as she was with her sister on her right and some unnamed lackey on the left of her, was glad for that. The jet stood behind them, its pilot ready for take-off at a moment's notice. The car, black with tinted windows, slowly pulled up in front of the three. The doors opened, and John Watson stepped out, followed by Mary Morstan. Molly's phone beeped. Anthea aimed a look at her sister, but Molly only shook her head and unlocked her phone.

_You'd better not pout._

Clearing her throat, she deleted the message and smiled at the approaching John Watson.

"Keep her in trouble, won't you?"

"Of course. I'm her husband – it's my job." He chuckled as they scooped one another into a brief but tight hug.

"Thank you," she said quietly into his ear, audible only to them. As he stepped away, John chuckled and silently patted her shoulder. As Mary moved forward, Molly turned to her sister.

"Could I, um, have a moment?"

"Of course," Anthea replied, giving a small smile. Beckoning John over, she and the security guard moved aside. Mary smiled, coming to a stop opposite Molly.

"So," she breathed.

"_So._"

"It's a girl," Mary blurted, unable to keep the good news all to herself. "The baby. We had a scan."

"Oh! Oh. That's – that's fantastic. Is she going to be named after me?"

"No, we've already picked out a first name. Would you settle for a middle name?"

"Wouldn't be averse to it," Molly mused playfully, with a smile quirking at the edge of her mouth. For a few moments, nothing else was said. Why was it, when one was about to be sent off to death, that was the time one's mind went completely and utterly blank?

"I suppose this is it then," Mary asserted. "The game – it's over."

"Nah. Game's never really over, is it?" Molly said, folding her hands behind her back. "It's just the players that change."

"I'm not one to boast, but I think we played it pretty well."

Molly nodded in agreement. "Yeah – yeah, I think we did. There were some hiccups, here and there—"

"A psychopath obsessed with you being one." Mary shrugged her shoulders, delving her hands deep into her coat pockets, breathing through her nose. "But what about you? Anthea mentioned some undercover work."

"Yeah, in Eastern Europe. Should last about six months."

The meaning was not lost on Mary. "Oh. Then what?"

"No idea, actually. I've always been rubbish at planning out my future."

"Clearly."

They both burst into giggles at that, but soon gained their composure. They once more fell into silence. Mary shifted her weight a little.

"You know I'll miss you."

"Hardly needs saying. You came here, didn't you?"

"Mm. Actions speak louder than words, as my mum would say." Mary smiled and shook her head. "This is ridiculous. Come here."

Molly let out an audible sigh of relief as Mary moved forward and wrapped her arms around Molly's shoulders, encasing her in a warm, tight hug of reassurance.

"Look after yourself out there, okay?"

"I'll try. You look after that baby of yours. And John too."

"Oh, he can take care of himself," Mary said, wrinkling her nose a little. She stepped back, and Molly stretched out a hand.

"To the best of times?"

Mary took her hand gladly. "The very best."

They held onto one another until, with one final squeeze of comfort, Molly released Mary's hand from hers and walked away to where her sister now stood. There was no hug exchanged between them, nor words of sentiment, save for a slight touch against Molly's upper arm and a whisper of "good luck" as she climbed up the steps and onto the plane. She didn't look back.

* * *

In 221b, Martha Hudson merrily hummed along to the tune on the television as she vacuumed the living room floor. She may not have been the housekeeper, but she still liked to keep things tidy. Anyway, her tenant always hated returning to a messy flat, and she wasn't having any more bullets in her walls if she could help it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the television screen flicker. Her hum died from her lips. Static filled the screen, and ever so slowly, faded. Words flashed up on the screen, and Mrs Hudson's silence was gone, replaced by a single, terrified scream.

* * *

Sally Donovan sighed heavily and leaned against the bar, taking a long, refreshing sip of the wine in front of her. Anderson stood beside her, his own drink untouched. Crowded around the television positioned above the bar were a group of football fans. All of them intently watched the match taking place on the screen.

"But don't you see?" Anderson asked, more focused on positing one of his many crackpot theories than any football match. "It's perfect! Watertight! It had to be Derren Brown – _had_ to be!"

Sally eyed him. "You've already told me the Derren Brown one, Anderson. You don't think these theories are getting a bit old, do you?"

"Oi!" One of the football hooligans, crowded around the television hung up on the wall behind the bar, looked to the barman. "Sort this television out, will ya? Can't damn well see the footie!"

Both Sally and Anderson frowned, looking to the television. Irregularly, as the beloved match went on, the television would flicker and the image would wave. The barman frowned and shrugged.

"Knew I shouldn't have bought that damn warranty," he muttered. Another customer, from the back of the pub called out.

"Try giving it a whack!"

The screen flickered again, and the soft hiss of static filled the room. Grumblings rumbled over the customers, but Sally only looked warily to Anderson, raising a warning eyebrow. He held his hands high in the air.

"_I_ didn't do this! Wait – look – there's a shape. It's – oh my God."

Sally's blood ran cold as her eyes stayed, transfixed to the still flickering screen.

* * *

For the first time in her life, Anthea Hooper was speechless. She had rigged elections, dealt with terrorists and prevented a world war or two but when this call had come through, and she had been met by the crisp voice of Lady Smallwood, she could feel herself go pale. All words dissolved on her tongue and she could do little but stutter.

"But that's…" Anthea pushed open the car door and got out. The worried faces of Mary and John Watson looked back at her. "That's not… possible."

"It's on every screen in the country." Lady Smallwood's voice was crisp, tight. Scared. "The Prime Minister has been informed."

That proved to be the last piece of information Lady Smallwood gave her. There were no instructions given, no orders, nothing. Anthea let the phone slide from her ear.

"Anthea?" Mary moved forward. "What's happened?"

* * *

Molly gazed out of the plane window, gazing down at the rural landscape. Below her was the airfield, now nothing more than a dot, hidden among endless fields of green. Anthea, John… Mary. They too, were all just specks now. Specks on the horizon.

"Miss?" She snapped her head up. A lackey, stood over her, held out a phone. "It's your sister."

Molly held the phone to her ear. "Anthea? What's wrong?"

"It's an ex of yours, Molly." Her sister's voice was a fragile calm. "It seems... it seems he's not quite done with you yet."

* * *

John shook his head. "He's _dead._ You told me – he was dead."

Mary nodded furiously, her hands sinking into and drawing against her hair. "Absolutely – yes! Definitely dead! The man shot his own bloody brains out!"

"How is he back then? Is it a joke of some kind – a prank – maybe?"

Mary shrugged helplessly, coming to a stop beside her husband. "I have no idea."

With a shaky breath, she took a hold of his hand. She felt him tightly entwine his fingers around hers. The warmth of his skin soothed her, but the fear was still prevalent. Still _there_, a shiver that went up the spine. Above them, the jet that had once marked Molly Hooper's departure turned in to land.

* * *

Molly sat back in her chair, winded from the news her sister had provided to her. Impossible. That's what it was. Once again, her phone chimed. Almost subconsciously, numb as she was from the knowledge that now swam around her head she picked out and unlocked her phone. The message that greeted her made her throat dry and her lungs tighten and the corners of her mouth twitch.

_Sherlock Holmes is coming to town._

Her phone chimed for a second time, but there were no words. Only a video. With trepidation, she pressed the play button.

The video filled the screen, and Sherlock Holmes, flesh and blood and _alive_, sat in a chair, facing the camera. For a few moments, he was silent. Then he smiled; it was that same devilish smile that she had so often let dominate her dreams.

"Well Miss Hooper…" He leaned forward. "Did you miss me?"


End file.
